


Druzhba druzhboy

by inlovewithnight



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Early Days, Friendship, Gen, russian bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2707409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Together we become more tender<br/>When the fight goes all the fiercer<br/>- "The Team of Our Youth," Russian sports anthem</p>
            </blockquote>





	Druzhba druzhboy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alpheratz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alpheratz/gifts).



The first time Sergei saw Zhenya, he couldn’t believe the size of the boy. Still a kid, but so fucking big. A tree on skates.

The Magnitogorsk coach whistled for everyone to circle up, and Sergei watched how the boy handled himself on his skates. Very well, of course, or he wouldn’t be on the team. One didn’t expect a tree to skate well, but he stood corrected.

“This is Sergei Gonchar, come back to play for us while the American league is on lockout,” the coach said. 

“Very glad to be here.” Sergei nodded at the players he knew, tried to mentally match up names to the ones he didn’t. He could figure out maybe half. “Very glad to be able to play.”

“I’m sure he’ll tell you all many stories about the American league,” the coach said with mock weariness. “Try not to forget to play while you’re dreaming about fat paychecks.”

They laughed and broke up for drills, but Sergei felt Zhenya watching him, wide-eyed and thoughtful. He knew he would be telling the boy the most stories about playing hockey in America, feeding his dreams, coaxing him out of his hometown.

He couldn’t help it. Zhenya in the NHL would be too good; not helping it to happen would be a crime.

**

When Zhenya arrived in Pittsburgh, he looked less like a tree than a very scared, oversized puppy. For the first few days he trailed along behind Sergei like one, as well, staring at him the same way he had in Magnitogorsk. Sergei knew that wouldn’t last; soon Zhenya’s confidence would catch up with him and he would grow sure on his feet and not need any help at all. For now, though. He would steady the boy, and help him out.

The first and most obvious thing was translating. Zhenya had basic schoolroom English, but more in theory than in practice, more in understanding than in speech. That was normal. Sergei gave him a hand on the ice or in the locker room when he could, when the official translator lapsed or wasn’t near, but the most important thing was at home, with the playbook.

“This is stupid,” Zhenya said frequently in frustration. “I can’t learn this.”

Sergei couldn’t let him get away with that. “You know perfectly well how to learn a playbook. It’s less about memorizing the names and words than knowing where to go when you see your teammates going into a given formation.”

“These don’t make _sense_.”

“It’s a different style, but you can learn it. Work hard.”

“I am working hard!”

“Work harder!”

Zhenya would glare at him, nostrils flaring and eyes narrow, but Sergei would never give way to a rookie. He sat and waited for Zhenya to give in and turn back to the page. He always did. He was a good boy.

He remembered well how difficult it was to come to the American league and start over. He tried to push just enough but not too hard, to give Zhenya space when he was upset and frustrated, to simply be _around_ instead of bothering him about loneliness. It was a tricky mixture. He was sure he didn’t always get it right.

One night he had gone to bed, but got up one last time to check the doors and windows. The kind of worry a married man had, whether the house was all locked up tight. He came downstairs and found Zhenya sitting on the couch, frowning at his playbook.

“It’s late,” Sergei said, rubbing his eyes. “Zhen’ka, go to bed.”

“In a minute.”

Sergei sighed and walked over to sit beside him. “You’re doing well.”

“Not well enough. I fucked up today.”

He had. “You’re catching up fast.”

“Not fast enough.” Zhenya sighed and closed the playbook. “I’m not used to not being fast enough.”

“You’re learning.” It was all Sergei could say.

They sat quietly for a while, and then Zhenya sighed, a soft, sorrowful noise, and twisted in his seat. Sergei was startled to find the boy leaning against him, his face tucked against Sergei’s arm.  
It was a strange thing; not vulnerable on the surface, but Sergei could feel the mountain of fear and pain underneath.

He didn’t say anything, just let Zhenya sit very still like that for as long as he needed, and then they both quietly stood and went to bed.

**

The first big win at home, the other boys took Zhenya out on the town. Sergei joined them for the first little while, then went home, reminding Zhenya to not be too loud coming in when he got back. He deserved to party and have a good time, but for the love of god, it would be best if he didn’t wake up Ksenia.

Zhenya said yes, okay, absolutely. Sergei waited up on the couch like an old father so that when he, sure enough, came crashing into the house like a very drunk bear, Sergei could shut him up and keep him from breaking things.

“Seryozha,” Zhenya said, staring at him with blurry eyes. “Seryozha, do you know what Sid told me?”

“I’m sure I can’t guess.” Sergei steered him to the couch. “You are drunk as a horse.”

“Yes.” Zhenya nodded. “But Sid.”

“Yes, tell me what Sid said.”

“He told me what it means in English when the rest of them say you’re my daddy.”

Sergei bit his lip for a moment and reminded himself that if he laughed, this drunk giant could take his head off with one hand. “Ah.”

“It means they think we’re fucking! But not… it’s like you’re in charge, like you picked me up off the street to fuck.”

“But that’s not true, Zhen’ka, so who cares?”

“I didn’t know!”

“They don’t mean it. It’s just a joke. You know that.”

Zhenya sighed and slumped low on the couch. “Yes. But I didn’t know.”

“I’m glad Sid told you.” He had known Sid would be the one to break down and let Zhenya in on the joke. He couldn’t stop himself any more than he could botch his game.

“He’s all right.” Zhenya sighed again. “I am very, very, very drunk, Seryozha.”

“You are. Yes.”

“Daddy.” Zhenya huffed. “Americans.”

Sergei rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you some tea.”

“Wait, wait.” Zhenya reached out and caught Sergei’s wrist, pulling him back for a moment. Zhenya’s face was crumpled, like he was thinking deeply.

“What?” Sergei prompted. “It’s late, you should have tea and go to sleep.”

“Wait.” Zhenya sat for another moment, then nodded and tugged Sergei close, close enough that just before it happened, Sergei realized Zhenya was going to kiss him on the mouth.

Zhenya’s lips were very soft, and his tongue was very clumsy.

Sergei pulled back firmly. “Tea, Evgeni.”

“Yes.” Zhenya let go and gave him an apologetic look. “That was not very good at all, was it?”

“No.”

“Sorry.”

Sergei waved his hand and turned toward the kitchen. “Forget it. I won’t tell the locker room if you don’t.”

Zhenya yelped in protest and Sergei smiled as he went to make the tea, brushing his fingertips against his lips once, in indulgence.

**

Zhenya becomes the star Sergei knew he would, and more than that. Trades come and go and Sergei ends up far from Pittsburgh, far from being anyone Zhenya leans on for reassurance, if he needs anyone at all for that anymore.

But they go to Moscow together every summer, to train and remember how to be at home, and when they’re there Zhenya leans on him in laughter, which is as good if not better.

“Sergei,” Zhenya tells him one evening as they walk from the training center to a cafe, “when we are old and retired, we will move back here together, yeah? We’ll live in Moscow in apartments next door to each other and coach youth hockey.”

“Why youth?”

“Because then they’re just little assholes.” Zhenya drinks from his water bottle and grins. “Easier to deal with.”

“I had to deal with you when you were older, you know. Drunk and rolling around on my couch.”

“Yes, but I wasn’t an asshole, Sergei.” Zhenya slaps him on the back and keeps walking. “I was a good, sweet boy!”

“If that’s how you remember it,” Sergei says, following him down the street. “Might be, might be.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title means "friendship is friendship."


End file.
